DDR
by Whilom
Summary: Bobby takes Jack to the arcade and bonds with his little brother over Coke, a car ride, and Dance Dance Revolution.


**A/N: **Ages: well, Jack's eleven so I guess Bobby's, like, 21, 22. Early 20s, let's say.

* * *

"Come on, Jackie." Bobby fed the machine a few coins and stepped onto the platform. "I'll whip your rear." 

"What is it?"

Bobby turned to look at the eleven-year-old standing next to him with a patronizing frown. "Don't tell me you've never been in an arcade before."

"I have."

"Well, obviously you haven't been to a _real_ arcade because you've never seen DDR."

"DDR?"

"Dance Dance Revolution," Bobby explained, tapping his feet a few times to select the song he wanted. "These sorts of games aren't usually my thing but I can move my feet faster than those two black sisters of yours."

"Angel and Jerry?"

"Yeah, Angel and Jerry," Bobby mocked in a nasally voice. "Get up here, kid. Let's see what you can do."

Jack stood on the other platform and hesitantly moved his feet against the arrows as he saw Bobby doing.

Bobby noticed. "No, no, not till the music starts, Jack. Then just hit the arrows with your feet so they match the screen." He chuckled at the intense look on Jack's face but didn't worry too much about it. After a few months with the Mercers, Jack's stubborn spirit definitely knew how to make an appearance, but sometimes he just had to give in to his older brothers' teasing. Bobby figured he wouldn't last more than five minutes but it'd be fun to give the kid a try.

The music started and Bobby bounced on the balls of his feet a few times before getting into it. A few people gathered around and several let out shouts of encouragement. They played through three songs before Bobby wiped the sweat off his forehead and looked at Jack. His little brother's shirt was sticking to him and several pieces of his hair were pasted to his forehead, but his tongue rubbed against his upper lip in concentration as his feet moved in time to the music. Bobby was so surprised he almost forgot to move. The shouts from the crowd were meant for Jack but he seemed oblivious to them. The arrows moved up the screen and Jack's feet stamped out the rhythm exactly, beat for beat. Bobby spared a glance at Jack's screen to see what his level was on: Hard.

Jack stumbled once and the crowd let out a groan of disappointment. Bobby absently stamped out the music but made himself a mental note to pull Jack off when the song was over. The kid looked like he was about to fall over and have a panic attack he was breathing so hard, but the fierce determination in his eyes made Bobby wait a few more minutes before he stepped off the platform and pulled Jack with him, thus dispersing the crowd. For once Jack didn't protest. He drew in a few ragged breaths and thankfully accepted the soda Bobby handed him after they were seated near the snack stand.

"Hey."

Jack looked up.

"You did good."

"I like it. I like the music." Jack gave a rare smile.

Bobby chuckled. "Figured you might, you little daisy. Wanna go play some real games now, like some shoot-'em-up or something?"

"No."

"Well, that's what I want to do. We already played your game so now we get to play mine. Hurry up and drink that thing."

Jack's forehead crinkled. "I didn't choose that one."

"What, Coke? You like Coke. It's a universal phenomenon. Everybody likes Coke."

"I mean the game. I didn't choose that one."

"You liked it."

"But I didn't choose it," Jack persisted, raising his eyebrows and leaning forward to get through to the man across the table who seriously wasn't understanding simple English.

"Fine," Bobby growled, seeing that Jack wasn't about to back down. "You choose one. _Then_ we'll do a shoot-'em-up."

Jack sipped the rest of his soda and then got up, leading the way back to the DDR.

Bobby groaned, seeing where Jack was headed. "Enough already. Alright, so you like it. I'm glad I hooked you on something that's not going to kill you one day. And I know you beat me, alright? I admit it."

He fished in his pocket for more quarters and grudgingly fed them to the slot. Jack didn't say anything, but picked out a song, the look of concentration on his face just as strong as before. Bobby played a few songs before he got off the platform and watched Jack do it, sometimes alone, sometimes with somebody else. He was surprised when he checked a clock and saw that it had been nearly twenty minutes and Jack had played more rounds than he had counted on. Had he really just been feeding quarters into that thing?

Jack caught Bobby's look and immediately quit the game, standing a few feet away from Bobby and trying to get his breath back without making it obvious that he was tired. He probably should have just done one song and then let Bobby choose his game, but after the first song came a second, and then Bobby had put in more quarters so he could keep playing, so he had. He wouldn't get in trouble, right? Bobby didn't look angry. He just looked kind of frustrated.

"Ready to go?"

Jack's face seemed far too small for his wide eyes.

"What about your game?" he asked in a small voice.

"Naw, it's too late. Ma's expecting us at home, we've got to go. Come on." Bobby turned to the exit and was irritated that Jack didn't walk next to him to the car. Instead the kid seemed to be making sure that he always walked at least four feet behind Bobby, and was as tense as a spring, ready to make a dash for it. Bobby decided it'd be better to approach the issue when they were in the moving car so Jack couldn't just run.

"So," he began as he pulled on to the street, "what's up? Didn't you like it?"

"I liked it."

"You sure have a funny way of showing it. If it was anybody else, they'd have been skipping around. But you—you're just quiet."

Jack just looked at Bobby as though to prove his own point.

"Okay, then." Bobby looked out the windshield at the traffic light. Weird color, that red. Kind of pinkish. Maybe the light was about to go out. "You know, you're going to be hanging around for a while."

Jack didn't answer.

"You might as well get used to us and all."

They were moving again and Jack was tracing the frosty window, making shapes on it. It probably didn't matter that the kid was actually listening, so long as he got the general message.

"We don't go to arcades a whole lot, but when we do it's not a problem. I mean," Bobby shrugged, "it's not like we're broke or anything, so it's fine to play games. You know?" He looked over at Jack who had pasted his whole hand to the window and then was tracing around it with his finger. Alright, he just needed to cut to the chase.

"Jack!"

The young boy whipped around and Bobby was surprised to see how fast he could move into a defensive position; Jack's legs were in the seat, shielding his arms which were close to his chest, able to defend either his head or his ribs if necessary. His blue eyes could just barely be seen over the top of his jeans.

_Blue-jeans. The kid's got holes in his—only two pair. Should get him some new ones, some that don't make him look like they're too big and have been dragged down the street,_ Bobby made a mental note. Usually he just filed them away and forgot about them, but this time it stuck. Not the fact that Jack needed new jeans, but the fact that the blue-jeans were the same color blue as Jack's frightened eyes. Jack was like blue-jeans. Tough, faded, holes in some spots, rips in others. _Weird analogy, kid. You make me think the weirdest things…_

"Easy, kid, you need to get less jumpy. I thought we trained you out of that." He reached over and rubbed Jack's hair. "All I'm saying is…don't walk behind me like that. Okay? You're my brother, just walk next to me. Or in front of me. I'm there to back you up. You're not my slave, even if I boss you around, and you're not my dog, even if I like to rub your hair." He gave Jack's head another good-natured rub. "You're just my…my…."

"Brother?"

Again, Jack was full of surprises. Just when you had gotten used to talking to a brick wall, the brick wall started talking back.

"Yeah. Yeah, you're my…my music-loving-hip-hopping-errand-running-puppy-eyed brother," Bobby finished. Jack raised his eyebrows at this wealth of information. "And you're the youngest," Bobby put in, in a gruffer tone, "so expect to get beat up on a lot."

For the first time, Jack didn't shy away at the mention of harsh physical activity.

"Will you teach me to play hockey?"

Bobby almost took out the mailbox in front of their house. "Hockey? Seriously, kid?" He unbuckled his seatbelt and looked Jack in the eye.

"You taught me that music game." Jack smiled, even bigger than he had in the arcade. "I think I'd like hockey, if you like it." Jack got out of the car and trudged into the house, unaware that Bobby was watching him thoughtfully.

He knew that Jack would be sliding into a chair in the kitchen, watching as Ma made dinner, dropping hints that he wanted to talk about their time at the arcade. He could just hear Jack now, "He let me play…for a long time. And he wasn't mad at me. He bought me Coke. I'm good at DDR, Ma. You should have seen me, even better than Bobby." Evelyn would smile, a new spark in her eye at the progress in Jack's openness. They wouldn't talk about it—Jack didn't like to be fussed over—and Jack would be pretty quiet at dinner, probably for the rest of the week, to make up for his spill this evening.

But it was a start. And who knew? Jack was a surprising kid.

"Wait up," Bobby whispered under his breath as he got out of the car, "my big-eyed-small-mouthed-high-flying little brother. I can teach you lots of things." Bobby grinned widely as he opened the front door and heard from the kitchen Jack's quiet voice rising and falling with energy. "And tomorrow, first thing, we're going to play hockey."


End file.
